arsonist's lullaby
by QuietLittleVoices
Summary: You walk in like your itching for a fight. ((end!verse))


You walk in like your itching for a fight and you know it. You feel your bones vibrate under your skin, feel your veins thrum with fire and adrenaline.

He sees you before you see him so when he grabs you it's a surprise. What's more surprising is that he isn't already kissing you, like he usually does because he knows the only thing that gets you down is a good, dirty fuck.

"I want you," you tell him, trying to turn in his arms, trying to get face to face.

He tightens his grip around you and you could swear he still has angelic strength because you can't move – or maybe you don't want to. He hums deep in his chest and you can feel it against your spine. It rattles your ribs, creates a symphony out of the inside of your chest, makes your body into a cathedral for anything he has to say. He's moving slowly, swaying like he's caught in a cross-breeze.

"Please." You hate begging – you can get sex from just about anyone in the camp without having to – but you'll do it for him. "Please."

He doesn't say anything, just leads you to the bed and lays you down. You miss his touch the moment he lets go, miss the comfortable weight of his arms around you. The warmth reminds you of before things went wrong, when you could just stay in the circle of his arms and not worry about the world falling apart so much.

Still without speaking, he takes off your boots and socks, places them gently under the bed next to his own. He treats your body like it's delicate, fragile glass, and that alone makes you want to cry – proving his point, you suppose. After the shoes comes your belt and then your pants. You try to shuck off your underwear after it but he stops you, moves your hands away and holds them to your sides.

"Let me do this," he asks. It's the first time he's spoken since you entered the room and it startles you. You thought you were used to the deep rumble of his voice, once like rolling thunder, but you never did get used to the sound of the Heavens channeling themselves through the body of a man.

"Okay," you tell him, letting your hands fall to your sides.

He nods shallowly and you've known him long enough to know it's a 'thank you' – you've become fluent in the language of his body. He unbuttons your shirt slowly and you help him get your arms out by shifting awkwardly around on the bed. Eventually you get free, and then you sit up so he can take off your t-shirt. As soon as you're stripped of everything except your boxers, he takes off his own shirt and pants with an almost clinical air about him. It makes you want to be sick, seeing him the way he is. You remember a time when he didn't know how to tie a tie – he probably still doesn't know that, but that isn't the point. The point is that he's fallen so far from Grace you can barely see it behind his eyes anymore.

There was a time when his eyes glowed with the light of Grace, a time when they were stormy and dark blue, tumultuous and treacherous and beautiful. You could have drowned in his eyes, could have flown. You would have done anything he asked of you if you got lost in his eyes, but he never asked more than you were willing to give and that was probably the root of the problem between the both of you. You are always willing to give him the universe, but he already had that and he just wanted you to be you. The problem, of course, was that you didn't know who you were until the light went out from behind his eyes and you had to find out. Now, his eyes are flat and dull; cold and so glazed that they're almost unseeing.

He moves you off the bed and pulls back the covers before moving you back, this time climbing next to you and pulling up the blankets. He kisses you then, finally, and it's slow and soft; he's taking his time, lingering as if he's afraid it might get snatched away at any moment.

You try and push, try and bite his lip or clash your teeth against his, anything to gain momentum, but he doesn't given in. The kiss ends too soon and he pulls you against his side, so you lay your head on his chest because it's the most comfortable position.

You fall asleep like that, in his arms. The rattling in your bones has calmed to the murmur of an overflowing brook, which is quieter than when you walked in. You listen to the steady beat of his heart and it makes you want to cry a little, knowing you're the reason why it's there, but the sound of it reassures you that _he's there_, with you, probably for the rest of both your natural lives. It twinges something deep in you that you don't want to name, so you let it be. You ignore it and you fall asleep.

When you wake up in the morning, sun is streaming in through the dirty windows and you're alone in the big bed. You hadn't expected anything else.


End file.
